Wake Me When It's Over

by Cheryl A Head

  “A couple of days ago. I know Mr. Jones, and I knew his wife when she was alive. I was a little worried when I saw he wasn’t pulling his mail in at night, and then, I guess it was Monday, I noticed the smell. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “We don’t know,” Charlie said.

  “Well, why did it take you so long to get here?” the postman asked with agitation.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I called you guys yesterday. Told you about the smell and to send somebody out here to investigate.”

  Charlie shared a glance with Mandy, who turned and walked down the steps. “I’m sorry, we didn’t get any call.”

  “Well I called. When somebody calls the police, you’re supposed to come.”

  “Oh, you got us all wrong. We’re investigators, not the police,” Mandy said. “Some of Mr. Jones’s coworkers were concerned about him; that’s why we’re here. But I think we better call the police again.”

  The metro police sent out two squad cars. Charlie and Mandy stepped aside as they broke through the front door. As a courtesy to a fellow officer, the police allowed Mandy into the house and she pulled Charlie in behind her. When they stepped into the living room, they saw a man lying face down on the floor with two bullet wounds in his back.

  The postman, holding his cap to his nose, identified the man as Garry Jones and fled to the porch steps. He was still sitting there in the cold rain when the coroner arrived.

  “I thought you said I wouldn’t see you this week,” Ernestine said, stepping aside for Charlie and Mandy to enter her apartment. “It’s good to see you girls, but I’m getting dressed to go walking with my group.”

  “Where are you walking in this rain?” Mandy asked.

  “Oh, we walk indoors when it’s raining or too cold. In the malls, around the airport terminal, we even walked in the Greektown Casino one afternoon. Anyplace with wide corridors.”

  “The building’s driver takes them in the van,” Charlie explained to Mandy. “I think it’s about a dozen people, right, Mom?”

  “Sometimes we have as many as twenty. We had that many when we went to the casino, but some of the people were doing more gambling than walking.”

  Ernestine paused to look at Charlie. She always knew when something was on her daughter’s mind, because Charlie would talk less and listen more. She’d also hold a fake smile.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing really,” Charlie said. “We had to go to a house near Six Mile, and we were heading back to Cobo, so we just thought we’d stop in and see how you were doing.”

  Ernestine headed for the couch and sat down. Charlie and Mandy followed, sitting in the comfortable easy chairs. The assisted-living building offered one- and two-bedroom apartments with formal dining rooms and eat-in kitchens. Her mother’s sixth-floor apartment was bright and airy, and also had a small balcony that had a side view of West Grand Boulevard.

  “I thought you were running short of time,” Charlie said.

  “It’s okay. We have a few minutes. I was going to fix my hair, but I’ll just wear a baseball cap,” Ernestine said matter-of-factly. “Now, tell me what’s going on. Did you two have a spat?”

  “No, nothing like that. We went to this older man’s house today, and we found him dead. His wife had died, and he lived alone, and . . .”

  “How did he die?”

  “Uh, well.” Charlie squirmed. Sometimes she discussed her cases with her mother, giving her the executive summary version, always leaving out confidential details and certainly excluding the violence and danger involved.

  Mandy found a way to describe the situation. “Well, let’s just say it wasn’t from natural causes.”

  “I don’t know how you girls can handle your jobs. I just couldn’t do it,” Ernestine said. “This case you’re on is dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But you don’t have to worry.”

  “Tell you what, if you don’t worry about me, I won’t worry so much about your work.”

  The phone rang, and Ernestine moved energetically to answer. “Okay, I’ll be right there,” she said into the receiver. “The van’s here. You two can ride down with me.”

  Ernestine grabbed her keys and her baseball cap from a hook on the clothes tree. She stopped for a moment, then went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of water.

  “Gotta stay hydrated.”

  The partners were gathered at the conference table, along with Carter, Tyson, and Cynthia. Charlie knew morale was low, and it was important to guard against losing focus and making mistakes. They could use a breakthrough.

  “What I’m passing out are copies of Mandy’s notes taken at the Garry Jones crime scene. Police found a packed suitcase in his living room, a sizable amount of cash, and two tickets to the Dominican Republic. This evening, Ty and Elise Hillman searched Garry’s office, but found nothing unusual. With the murder of Mr. Jones, my sense is we need to revisit all the food vendor applications. That should be our focus. What do others think?”

  “Garry could sign off on any number of requisitions. I think the only thing to do is pull any records with his signature,” Gil said.

  “But how far back do we go? Three months? A year?” Carter asked.

  As they bounced around ideas, theories and concerns, Charlie kept an eye on Tyson. Mandy’s notes contained graphic details of the scene, the condition of Garry’s body, and the conversation with the postman. Despite what’s seen on TV, she knew the murder of a human being wasn’t an easy thing to process, and the emotional reactions could range from anger to fear to severe depression.

  “When was it the Cobo food vendor was offered a bribe for his permit?” Charlie asked. “Remember, Hartwell told us about it. Ty, do you know? Tyson?”

  “What?” he jerked his head up to the eyes of those around the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear your question.” He looked tired. His eyes were puffy, and his skin sallow.

  “That was September,” Gil said, looking at his laptop. “The guy was offered a hundred grand for his permit by a man who appeared to be Asian, or Asian-American. The food vendor took ten grand for his exhibitor packet, but later thought better of it and reported it to Cobo officials.”

  “Does Garry issue all the food permits?” Charlie asked Ty.

  “Yes. He’s a compliance officer, so he issues permits based on his review of a vendor’s application form.”

  “Let’s pull his records, starting from last September,” Charlie said.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Carter said.

  “What else?” Charlie asked.

  “Some of the staff in food services are really shook up,” Tyson reported.

  “I can only imagine,” Cynthia said.

  “Would it help if I came up and talked to the group?” Gil asked.

  “I’m sure it would help a lot,” Ty said, managing a half-smile.

  “Okay, let’s talk about the loading dock.” Don introduced the next piece of business. “A few of us discussed this earlier. It’s a real point of vulnerability, and I think we need to put a couple of our people down there.”

  “The problems at the loading dock probably won’t be solved by adding people,” Cynthia said. “But I’ve been thinking that maybe we can add more steps to the receipt and delivery process.”

  “What do you mean?” Don asked.

  “Well, each delivery has a shipping order or purchase requisition, which must be submitted to the loading dock supervisor. The document must have the name of the employee, vendor, or exhibitor who has requisitioned the freight or goods, and a corresponding name of a Cobo manager. For instance, one of the auto exhibitors might have ordered a special item for their display. I don’t know, it could be a . . .”

  “A camel?” Don offered.

  Don’s comment caused a brief pause. Cynthia blinked, taking in the suggestion, and Judy rolled her eyes.

  “Okay, let’s go with a camel,” Cynthia said. “That kind of delivery would h
ave to be signed off on by the events executive. Every exhibitor has an account manager, and they all report to the head of events.”

  “Okay, and does that executive sign off on every delivery?” Charlie asked.

  “Not usually. If it’s something ordered by a Cobo employee, the loading dock supervisor or department supervisor could sign off. But we could add the requirement that if a delivery has been requisitioned by a vendor or exhibitor, the account manager must come down to the dock to examine the client’s deliveries against the inventory sheet on the purchase order. You see what I mean?”

  “Sure,” Don said.

  “How much time will that add to the delivery schedule?” Gil asked.

  “God, it could be as much as a half hour. Most of these account managers have never seen the loading dock. They wouldn’t be able to check, say, every container, but maybe they could do a spot check. You know, the kind you’d do for quality control.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Charlie said.

  “Don’t you x-ray packages?” Don asked.

  “We do, and that works great for our local delivery carriers, you know, FedEx, UPS,” Cynthia said. “But that wouldn’t work for the camel or any of the other unusual deliveries we get during the auto show.”

  “We’ll get a lot of complaints,” Ty spoke up.

  His voice was so low everyone leaned toward him. There was none of the bravado and confidence he’d shown the first day they’d met him.

  “Tyson’s right. We’ll get complaints all along the process chain,” Cynthia said. “The loading dock supervisors and drivers won’t be happy with the delays and backups; the account managers won’t be happy that they will need to leave their desks and venture down to the bowels of Cobo to reconcile inventory; and the exhibitors, vendors, and department heads won’t be thrilled that there is another bureaucratic hoop to jump through.”

  Ty nodded. “I’ll need to give the GM a heads up on this one. That level of complaining comes directly to his office.”

  “How did the GM respond when he heard about Garry?” Charlie asked.

  “He was shocked. Elise and I were the ones who told him, and she was crying. I know he called Mr. Hartwell after we left.”

  “It’s a sad situation,” Judy said to Ty.

  “Mack, I want to get back to the loading dock situation. I still think it’s a good idea to include Novak and Carter in the process,” Don said.

  “Oh, right, Don. Thanks for getting us back on task. Don and I talked about this earlier today. Carter, we think you’ll be great at spotting a questionable manifest or purchase order. And as I understand it, you can use your laptop to do on-the-spot checks if you need to.”

  “That’s right,” Carter said.

  “We’ll want you to give extra scrutiny to any deliveries to the Chinese contingent. And Judy will be there to spoon out the ‘be patient’ stew.”

  Judy nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Okay. I’ll let the dock supervisors know,” Ty said.

  “I’ve got one more thing,” Cynthia said. “The police commander who came to Cobo after Josh Simms was killed stopped by to see me this evening. I dealt with him during the Chenglei investigation.”

  “Let me guess: He wants to know what the hell is going on. Garry makes three suspicious deaths associated with Cobo Center in two weeks. He’d be a fool not to be upset,” Charlie said.

  “Believe me, he’s no fool.”

  “Did Hartwell call the police commissioner?” Gil asked.

  “Yes. I know he’s spoken to him,” Cynthia said.

  “Well, I know Hartwell is against it, but it’s time for me to work the informal channels with the police,” Don said.

  “Okay, Don. Make your calls,” Charlie said. “But that doesn’t mean bring in reinforcements. We’re still trying to keep this thing in-house and off the public radar. Let’s get back to work.”

  Chapter 8

  Thursday, January 5, 2006

  Auto Show: 3 days

  Lin Fong had overslept. Too much fried food and too many gaming hours. It was already eight o’clock and he had to be at Spectrum at nine. Ms. Mack’s shower was large with a rainfall nozzle, and it felt good. He grabbed the container of shampoo and poured a glob on his head. It smelled girly, but made great suds. After towel-drying his hair, he spent some time working gel into it until it formed a small peak. He looked a long time in the mirror, and thought his hair looked better than usual. He pulled on khakis, a white T-shirt and a long-sleeved, plaid dress shirt. It was cold today and more rain was expected, so he settled for a gray hoodie and a jacket. He stuffed a PowerBook into his backpack and gave the apartment a last scan before exiting. He’d have to throw out the pizza box and carryout bag when he got back from work. He took the stairs down rather than wait for the elevator.

  The guy at the front desk directed Lin to a cab stand a half block away. When the chill hit his still-wet hair, he pulled his hood up and picked up his pace. From across the street, a silver van made a U-turn, sped toward him, and screeched to a halt. Lin was about to give the driver a dirty look when the rear door shot open, and a big guy grabbed him and his backpack in one meaty fist and threw him into the backseat. Fong felt the pressure of an arm around his neck and he began to struggle. He thrashed and fought back and was able to kick out the window on the driver’s side before lack of oxygen sent him into darkness.

  Kwong arrived at the appointed address. He’d slipped quietly away from the hotel, evading his driver and asking the doorman to hail a taxi to pick him up at the side entrance. There was another call with the executives tonight, so his morning schedule was open, and it would be a few hours before anyone took note of his disappearance.

  He was escorted to the third floor of the nondescript building, where he was met by a diplomatic attaché, Homeland Security Agent Tony Canterra, and two other DHS staff assembled around an imposing conference table. The agents wore dark suits and stern faces, and they opened portfolios and rustled the papers they contained.

  Kwong had worn his navy suit and red tie. He was a student of history, and thought now about the many images, captured in old paintings, of defeated generals in formal dress offering their surrender. Kwong poured a glass of water with shaking hands.

  “Mr. Kwong. We’ve looked at the photographs and other documents you’ve provided. Your evidence against Mr. Heinrich is very compelling,” Canterra said.

  “He is a depraved and dangerous man. I could not be a party to whatever he is plotting. I am . . . a patriot,” Kwong paused, looking in the eyes of each person, “but I am also a family man. I want my sons to be able to live free of terror.”

  “We understand.”

  “Were you able to secure my wife and children?” Kwong asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Canterra answered. “Last night your family was driven to the U.S. Embassy in Beijing. Early this morning they were flown, unofficially, to the embassy in Seoul.”

  Kwong sat back in his chair with a sigh. Yesterday morning, Jiaying had called to say she’d had a visit from the state police, an anonymous tip they said, about negligence of her children. The uniformed men had interrogated her, searched their home, and frightened their sons. Kwong believed his bosses were sending a message.

  “Thank you,” Kwong said with sincerity. He didn’t fully trust these Americans, but sometimes it was necessary to sleep with the enemy. He stared at his shaking hands on the table. Not since he had asked permission of his father-in-law to marry Jiaying had he felt so anxious.

  “I wish to defect.” Kwong spoke the words that would initiate a series of protocols within the State Department.

  “You are aware, of course, Mr. Kwong, that your involvement in industrial espionage is a violation of the 1996 Economic Espionage Act,” the State Department staffer stated.

  Kwong nodded. He took another long sip of water. “Spying is one thing. Killing another.”

  “We quite agree,” the attaché said. “That is why we’re willing to en
tertain your request.”

  “But,” Tony interrupted. “First, there’s something more we need from you, Kwong.”

  “I’m sorry for the delay, sugar,” Judy said to an impatient truck driver. “I know it’s been a long wait but we’ve got to be extra careful this year, and it’s either deal with me or with the Secret Service over there with their black suits and earpieces. I think I’m nicer, don’t you?”

  Judy’s tap dance was effective. She and Carter had been at the loading dock since 7 a.m. implementing a strategy of “disarm, charm, scrutinize, and feed.” While she asked questions about the driver’s trip, family, and the predictions for next month’s Super Bowl, Carter’s fingers pranced over his keyboard to check the veracity of the driver’s identification and paperwork. When Carter flagged something unusual, he slid a card marked “C” to Judy. “Okay, we’re going to have you queue up at Ramp 4. There will be a little wait but we’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, grab yourself a doughnut and a cup of coffee over there before you move your truck.”

  Trucks lined up at ramps 1-3 were turned over to a shipping staffer for business as usual. But the paperwork for vehicles at ramps 4-6 was handed to a loading dock supervisor who summoned an account manager. If the threat to the auto show involved smuggling contraband into Cobo, Judy and Carter were determined to be the front line of defense.

  “Have you heard from Lin?” Cynthia stood in the doorway of the Mack suite, aiming her question at Charlie.

  Charlie was manipulating Post-it notes at her desk, concentrating on the red notes— the questions. She had a column for the vulnerability in food services, one for the Chinese, and a long line of notes for Heinrich.

  “Hi. Come on in.”

  “Lin hasn’t reported to work. He was due at nine, but nobody’s seen him, and he’s not answering my calls or texts.”

  “We have a way to reach him. He has a proprietary phone with a tracking device. I’ll call Judy.”